


in darkness (and in light)

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8910961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: Perhaps it’s only an animal. Something wild that has found its way down here - or perhaps the last son of a long line that has survived all these eons in the dark - and it aches to sample supple human flesh.Perhaps it is the god, hungry for the same.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "things you said in the dark."

Perhaps it’s all right to say it, now that she’s here and there’s no going back: she’s afraid. Petrified, really. Never before in her life has she faced a situation like this. Even when she was giving her dissertation, if she had failed utterly, there were avenues she could see by which to move forward. But this? There’s nothing up ahead, only darkness and mystery.

 _Literally_ darkness and mystery. She’s been walking for nearly an hour now and hasn’t seen any signs of life. The lantern she was given to light her way down the ancient steps into the city won’t last all night. If she doesn’t find someone soon, she’ll be trapped in utter darkness with no hope of lighting her way again. She’ll die down here. Alone. In the dark.

She walks faster.

“Hello?” she calls at the next crossroads, just as she has at all those that came before. She looks carefully in every direction, holding her lantern as high as she can to cast the light farther. Nothing. Only dusty walkways and dark windows in dull, stone facades. Same as all the others.

She needs to find shelter and fuel for her fire.

Is that wrong? Should she … keep looking?

She shakes her head and moves for the nearest building. She doesn’t care about what’s proper - not when there’s nothing proper about this entire situation - she’s not going to die for formality.

The floor inside is as dusty as the walkway and just as empty. The next building is much the same. And the next. When she crosses the street, she’s lucky enough to find ceramic jars. The lid of one comes open with a _pop_ and inside she finds oil. If every one of the jars is filled, her lantern will last long after she’s died of dehydration.

She carefully refills the lamp and considers her future. She’s here as little better than one of the sacrifices they send down every decade. She’s been scrubbed and pressed and wrapped in fine white silk. And all of that might be done to the male sacrifices as well, but Jemma highly doubts any of them were forced to make sacred vows before entering the city. She isn’t fluent in the Inhumans’ language the way Ward is, but she knows enough to recognize the intent behind what she was saying.

The room is musty and cramped, so she takes the open jar of oil and her lantern into the street. She can’t see the sky through the thousands of tons of dirt and rock burying the city, but she can at least pretend that the low-hanging blackness is only clouds. She returns to the crossroads and sets her lamp in the very center, then stands back to watch the shadows dance.

It may be minutes or hours, she has no way to tell, but she knows when she’s no longer alone. Her shoulder blades itch and the layers of silk feel especially thin and there is a small, animal part of her that urges her to abandon the light and run run _run_ into the dark.

She digs her nails into her crossed arms and refuses to move, to give any sign she’s noticed.

Perhaps, she thinks as the shadows dance on the corner of the building ahead of her, it’s only an animal. Something wild that has found its way down here - or perhaps the last son of a long line that has survived all these eons in the dark - and it aches to sample supple human flesh.

Perhaps it is the god, hungry for the same.

No one knows what he’s like. He demands the sacrifices of course, but there’s no telling what becomes of them. And it is through his power - supposedly - that the Inhumans rule over all the Earth. Privately Jemma thinks that unlikely. The Inhumans are _better_ than the rest of them. Their alien DNA has such varied and unpredictable consequences that it’s impossible humans would have overpowered them. They don’t need some mythical god to conquer anyone.

She doesn’t know she’s cold until warmth washes over her back. It takes every ounce of willpower she possesses not to lean into it.

Her hair stirs, both from breath and from light fingers brushing it aside to expose her neck. He does not speak and she does not move while he reaches around to untie her cloak. It slips from her shoulders like water and, though she still wears the dress, she feels more exposed than ever she has before.

Hands close around her bare upper arms and he leans over her like a shadow. “Lovely,” he breathes into her hair and then lips are on her shoulder.

Perhaps she does it for the warmth, perhaps because it is what is expected. Whatever the reason, she allows her head to fall back against his shoulder and his grip on her tightens. She fears he will leave bruises, but the pain only thrills her.

He follows the line of her shoulder, up her neck to her ear. Her skin was scrubbed raw before she was sent down and is still oversensitive from the experience. He nuzzles her hair. “You know why you are here?”

It was one thing to stand in stoic silence while he acted; it’s another to admit the reality of the life she’s found herself in. She has to swallow twice before she can speak - and his patient attention, stalled where it is but by no means stopped, doesn’t help matters.

“They had me recite wedding vows,” she says with more stability than she feels.

He hums and his lips move to her jaw.

“Is that what this is?” she asks, struggling to keep her voice steady when her heart is pounding so. “After ten thousand years of solitude, you wanted a bride?” She succeeds in hiding her fear and lust both, but doubts she manages to keep the incredulity entirely out of her tone.

“More or less. You disapprove?”

Not as much as she should. She can’t blame him for wanting company, but-

“I don’t know you,” she says, fisting her hand at her side to keep her fingers from digging into his hair.

“I am the one who loves you.” He says it so simply, as though it’s not the most complicated thing in the world, and she tries to turn to face such an absurd statement but his hands are on her hips, holding her in place.

“You don’t know me.”

His smile slides down her neck. “I know you are mine as I am yours. That is all I need know.”

Well _she_ needs to know more. She forces herself forward, out of his embrace. Her back to the fire now, she feels cold, but at least she can think.

He’s handsome, is her first thought and a foolish one because that isn’t his body, it’s one he was given. It’s one of her people, hollowed out so that he can go on living.

But he was handsome, whoever he was. It strikes her that’s a mercy.

“Do you know why they sent _me_?” she asks softly.

He tips his head. His eyes do not leave her face but she has the sense his look is far more sensual than it appears. “For your beauty, I imagine.”

She laughs. “I’m being _punished_.” Or Coulson is. He discovered an Inhuman, living as a human long past the age of transition, and kept the knowledge to himself. He hid her. From what, Jemma still doesn’t know, but she imagines, from all the ominous ceremony she’s been forced to endure the last few days, it was the right call.

And now Skye’s gone missing, along with Ward, who will surely be able to keep them both hidden for years with his skills, and the rest of them remain behind to suffer for the crime.

His eyes narrow and that animal part of her speaks up louder than ever, demanding she flee into the dark, tight spaces where he won’t be able to reach her. His gaze sweeps over her again, this time from head to toe, and he demands, “Were you harmed?”

The question and the tone of it put her off-balance. His anger reminds her of Ward’s, his indignation whenever any of them are put in harm’s way. But that is because Ward cares for them, considers himself their team’s white knight protector. She has no idea how to read that tone coming from a god.

She blinks and very nearly laughs. “I’m sorry,” she says, fighting to hold back giggles, “but do you have a name?” The Inhumans call him simply “God” and among her own people Jemma has only ever heard him called “the Inhumans’ god.” Neither are exactly suitable names to call one’s husband by.

He steps closer and it’s only the fire burning at her back that stops her moving away. “You may call me Alveus.” His rough fingers brush her hair over her ear and a shiver that’s not at all to do with the temperature - not when his warmth is already bleeding into her again - runs through her. “And you are?”

“J-Jemma,” she says around a thick swallow. “Dr. Jemma Simmons. Though I don’t know, that might have changed since this morning. Do you have a last name or is there some formal title-” Her babbling cuts off with another shudder as his thumb trails down her chest, straight to the very low tip of her collar.

“ _Jemma_ ,” he says and for a moment she thinks he’s only testing it out, but then he continues in that same, weighty tone, “were you harmed?”

His concern feels like a physical thing here with them, something dark and menacing in the shadows. It frightens her even as it warms her heart. “No,” she says. “No, I came willingly.”

She could have refused, could have fought, but it was easier to give them what they wanted. She would walk of her own free will into this tomb and the others would be spared. It wasn’t so difficult a decision.

His entire being seems to lighten as he relaxes. A smile even curves at those lips and she finds he’s even more attractive when he’s genuinely happy.

“Good,” he says. His hand slides down her bare arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and he takes her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come.”

“Come where?” she asks, voice going a little high and frightened as the shadows rise up around them. She looks longingly back at the fire. In a few moments it will be nothing but a star and then it will be gone, there will only be the dark. The dark and him.

“To my home.” When he turns his head towards her, she can just make out that his smile has grown. She hopes its sharpness is only a trick of the light. “Did you think I would live in empty rooms and dusty halls?”

“Well…” The truth is she doesn’t know how a god might live. She tried not to give it much thought, honestly.

“Do not fret, it is a fine home, made finer in anticipation of my coming wife.” His fingers tighten around hers. “There is beauty here, Jemma - more of it now that you are here - you will see.”

She barely hears the reassurance or the compliment. _Wife_ , he called her. She knew, of course, but somehow hearing him say it …

She’s his. She’s the wife of a god, buried beneath the ground.

 


End file.
